


the ones left unchosen

by HelgaHufflepunk



Series: Poe Party Hogwarts AU [2]
Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angsty Schmoop, Count The References To The Author's Actual Historical Lives !!, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, annabel is emo about it !!, for once, i'm a nerd pretty much, lenore is a ghost !!, like i swear there's actually a plot that's going to be happening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelgaHufflepunk/pseuds/HelgaHufflepunk
Summary: Emily Dickinson is just looking for seven peaceful years of learning magic; H.G. Wells is just trying to pass Potions without knocking into anything else; Ernest Hemingway might have had a little too much fun at the Slytherin party last weekend. Krishanti sits in the Divination classroom, waiting for her prophecies to come true. Annabel is trying to deal with the fact that her best friend is now a ghost, while Edgar is dodging letters from his adoptive father left and right.Our favorite authors at Hogwarts. What could possibly go wrong?(Answer: a lot.)





	

THIS IS NOT THE STORY OF A CHOSEN ONE, but rather, this is the story of the ones left behind - the forgotten, the damned, the almost-heroes. There are no kings here. This is not a story about the brightest or the best or the Boy Who Lived. This is a story about a school, and it starts like this: 

Jane Austen, with her pretty braids and her brand-new wand, sitting on the train to Hogwarts for the first time. The first to change into her uniform; the only first year sitting alone in their compartment. The candy trolley rattles by. She hears children laughing. She thinks of her sister, of her face when Jane had gotten her letter, and forces herself to smile. _I’m lucky just to be here_ , she reminds herself, gripping onto her wand (cedar with a unicorn hair core, 10 3/4 inches, rigid) as tight as she can.

Ernest Hemingway, sitting under the Sorting Hat, his too-long fingers twitching in his lap. Everyone is staring, and he hates it, he hates feeling like they're waiting for him to trip and fall, for an excuse to laugh, to hate him, to toss him into the lake and have done with it. He pushes his chin up a little higher, ignores the anxiety pooling in his stomach and the vulnerability settling around his shoulders and the _itching_ of this _bloody hat_  on his head - because it doesn't matter where the Hat sorts him. It just matters that he's here - he's _here_ , and no matter where he goes after this - if this Sorting ever actually ends - he'll make the most of it. He's Ernest Hemingway, and that has to mean something. He'll _make that_  mean something. 

Krishanti sitting at her desk, before the students file in for the first Divination class of the year, a tea cup clasped in her shaking hands. She is brave; she wore lion-red on her robes, once - she walked through these halls with her head high, walked into war with bare feet, wand drawn, eyes sparking, but that doesn't make the bad days any easier. She'd learned long ago that magic doesn't fix everything - especially the kind she carries in her chest, in the whorls of her fingers, in the lines of her palms. A prophecy is a burden on more than just one set of shoulders, in any life. 

Oscar Wilde, standing in Ollivander's, holding a new wand in his hands and fire in his eyes. 

Mary Ann Evans, trying on her new robes, dreaming of three-scoop ice cream and brooms rising high (higher) (higher) into the sky, the wind rushing through her hair, the ground fading below her feet. An escape. (A victory.) (A something-better.)

Emily Dickinson, sitting in her attic bedroom, sprawling poems in notebooks and staring out windows, dreaming of hope (of salvation) (of magic she already has). 

Annabel Lee, sitting at the foot of Lenore's bed, _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ splayed open on her lap, sunlight spilling onto the pages. 

Edgar Allan Poe, sitting at the roots of the willow tree in his backyard, gripping onto his acceptance letter gingerly, as though afraid holding onto it too hard would make it rip (disappear) (fade away). 

Lenore, her mother's pearls draped around her throat, spinning in front of the mirror, humming a Muggle song from the radio, lovely and unaware of the darkness to come. 

Charlotte, smiling by the fire, Anne and Emily sitting at her feet, eyes wide and attentive as they listen to whatever story she's weaving now. Branwell in the corner, rolling his eyes, flipping through the Quidditch section of the Daily Prophet - eyes flickering over whenever her tale is too good to ignore. 

Agatha Christie, sitting in Ravenclaw tower, quill tap-tap-tapping on her parchment, looking at the star-dotted ceiling like it might tell her its mysteries if she looks long enough. 

H.G. Wells, a nervous boy with nervous hands and a broken leg, science fiction novels stacked around his bed, dreaming of worlds of his own invention (of worlds where time travel is possible) (where the sky is no longer the limit).

Edward De Vere, tying his brother's tie before their annual holiday ball, smiling proudly at the twitching, too-sweet boy in front of him. 

"One day," he laughs, "you'll be at Hogwarts, too. And it'll be the best years of your life."

This is where our story starts - with a brother's smile, and the child who believes in it. 

It is not where it ends.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it!! <3 <3 <3


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